Dearest Santa
by Lapulta J.R.R. Cahill
Summary: Amy has a dream for Christmas, but Beatrice had one also, and it never came true. A one-shot.


**Summary; Christmas for Amy in 2002. A one-shot. Please smack me when needed.**

**This is a completely random story I made up with the characters as Beatrice and Amy. I got the main idea from Amy's card from the first book. Look on the back and she has the letter written there with a glass of milk, ect.**

**I wrote this story in a time zone of approx. one hour, at 5:30 to 6:30 in the morning two days before Christmas. Ugh. Another note. This is my first one-shot ever. So flame me for what I need to be flamed for. And do ****not**** restrain it because you're my friend, or like my writing. That's only going to make me mad because I know I DO deserve it.**

**Enjoy! And Happy Holidays to everybody!**

* * *

**Dearest Santa**

There was only one light on, and it shown through the curtains of a Boston apartment.

The streets below were empty, and had been emptied long ago when the malls had shut down for the employees' holidays. One or two cars passed by at times, complimentary examples of procrastinators who waited till the last minute to get gifts. Nobody stopped in the snow to see the little lone light in the apartment.

The light was a 60 watt bulb, placed in an old fashioned lamp that barely worked. It lit up one corner of the room, and illuminated a red-headed child, curled into a ball, in an over-stuffed, ugly, orange sofa. In the middle of the room, was a low coffee table. It had a plate, with three chocolate chip cookies arranged symmetrically in the center. There was a tall glass of milk by the side.

There was no Christmas tree anywhere. And although there were a few presents, there weren't many. It seemed almost like Christmas was unwelcome in the room. Like somebody wanted to keep it out.

On the coffee table, by the glass of milk and cookies, was a letter, written on 5 by 8 wide-lined paper, reading;

_Dear Santa,_

_Ant Beatrice told me your not real. But I don't beleev her. I think she was on the notty list and never got presents. All I want for Christmas are my parents. I know your busy building toys, but my gift is easy to make because I know what they look like. I drew you a pikture._

_Sincerely,_

_Amy Cahill, Age 8_

_P.S. I don't think Dan should be on the notty list. It's not his fault the principal's suit caught fire._

Below the 'P.S.' was a drawing of a man, a woman, a girl, and a little boy dressed up in a ninja suit waving a sword around. They were labeled, Mom, Dad, Amy and Dan.

The little girl turned in her sleep, her head lying heavy on the pillow.

* * *

Just before dawn, a cross, tired old woman saw the light, and left her room. Pulling on a robe, she scanned the scene before her in disgust. Christmas always brought bitter memories for her. Never pleasant. With a scowl, the woman snatched up the piece of paper lying by the cookies and an obvious frown formed as she read it.

The woman's eyes were flaring even before they fell on the family drawn below. When she saw the happy smiling faces, there was a quick, deft twist of the paper and the entire letter was torn in two. Walking over to the window, the woman ripped the letter again so it was torn into four pieces, then threw them out- making them completely merciless against the howling wind and swirling snow.

She shut the window, closing it against all the bad thoughts that crowded into her mind.

With the bang of the closing window, the girl woke up. Big, jade green eyes blinked as sleepiness wore away. "Did Santa come?" Was the hasty question.

The woman's eyes flashed. "No. Go back to bed."

The girl's lower lip curled out slightly, and the large black eyelashes fluttered close together. It was obvious she was trying not to cry. "Good night Aunt."

"Good night." But the reply was almost like a death sentence. There was no warmth in it, no happy wishes. The people who had no happiness, wanted no business with giving away any of the happiness they already had.

The woman sat down heavily on the couch and the memories flooded back to her unbidden. A couch. Falling asleep. Yelling. Pain. Pain was the final result. It wasn't physical, but a burning pain, like a fire burning deep inside her heart.

The woman could remember everything she'd written, and everything she'd hoped for. Everything that was shattered along with the pain. She had been thirteen. She had thought she could figure out what to do, who she could trust, what she could rely on. She had been wrong.

_Dearest Santa,_ [The letter had gone.]

_Trust me, I know this is your busiest time of year. And I also know you have a ton of stuff to do. But I only need one thing for Christmas. You don't have to worry about all gifts and presents and things. All I need is a cart I can continue working for the Bakery Shop down the street. They don't mind me working for them as long as the cart is my own._

_All my love,_

_Beatrice_

Yet out of everything she'd done, -extra cookies, a larger glass of milk- nothing happened the next Christmas morning. There were presents, but not a cart. She had lost the warmth of the bakery, that oozy-goodness smell that filled her whenever she walked inside in the morning. She had lost the smell of cookies baking, of cakes cooking, of all the pastries being spread over with white frosting. She had lost that so-unique tang of sugar on her tongue, that tang that stayed in her mouth for the rest of the morning.

Her Father had called her into his study that evening. He was angry.

The woman could still hear the words echoing in her head. _"You disappoint me Beatrice. How could you?" "Of all the places I thought you were, the bakery!" "A bakery is nothing in this world! You were fitted to greatness!"_ But was greatness really so great if you didn't want to be great? Was it truly worth losing all she had loved?

The woman closed her eyes hard. Parents couldn't be replaced. She knew that. But she also knew the little girl's heart was going to be broken the next morning.

Oh, what to do?

* * *

The next morning, a little five year old boy was running around the room. He was holding up a rare coin to add to his coin collection. It had been his only present, but he was excited about it. The girl was slumped over her book. Even the woman could see she was trying hard not to cry, even as large tears slipped through the lashes and landed on the white pages.

"Amy."

"Yes Aunt." The book was instantly snapped shut, and the girl was standing at attention. A tear trickled down her cheek.

"I was going to bake cookies right now. Do you want to help? Call Dan too."

The tears didn't disappear entirely, but the sniffling stopped, and no more tears continued down the cheeks. The woman watched as the red-headed girl nodded eagerly. "Wait for me!" And she ran off to grab her brother.

The woman began to write a letter in her mind.

_Dearest Santa,_ [It began.]

_This Christmas I need sugar, cinnamon, flour, baking powder...  
_


End file.
